


Tell it slant

by huffspuffsblows



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Fluff, Multi, babes being bamf, bros being dudes, some pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:32:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffspuffsblows/pseuds/huffspuffsblows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--<br/>The Truth must dazzle gradually<br/>Or every man be blind.</p><p>A series of A woman called Fujiko Mine!centered drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Troupe 66

**Author's Note:**

> Don't leave your Jigen Daisuke alone with children. Troupe 66 as a nod to Jigen aka Camaro-chan.

don't leave a Jigen Daisuke with your children

  
To put it simply, he stood out. And not just like a sore thumb, but a thumb that’s been slammed into a car door about five times. A mafia thumb. [thumbs have nothing on lives, though, and how many have been left with nothing but a thumb?] Which doesn’t even cover the blood seeped through the sleeves of his jacket. Because honestly, who wears a borsalino to a grocery store like that?

He stands off to one side before the automatic doors, one hand stuffed in a pocket while the other hangs uselessly at his side, occasionally twisted in the fabric of his slacks.  
He’s waiting for something. Someone. That much is clear, by the way the shadows beneath the brim of his hat turn ever so slightly towards each new flurry of motion that heads his way. It’s in the impatient line of his shoulders, in the downturn of a mouth that hasn’t smiled or broken into laughter often. [except most people don’t know how to look closer: they mistake the single laugh line around one corner of his mouth as a wrinkle, a premature fissure in the cracks of his being]

Of course, they don’t realize any of this aside from: he’s there, he’s not square, and must be bored while he’s waiting without even a snack! So it’s time to make a profit and maybe make him stop frowning. Doomed little creatures as they are, as palpable as the woman’s anxiety is every time her gaze flickers to him beyond their table, she doesn’t catch them in time.

Jigen Daisuke doesn’t stand a chance when three girl scouts decked out in pigtails, braids, little puff buns and green vests are suddenly upon him. He feels the eyes as soon as they burn into the very fabric of his coat, fingers trail along the small of his back for his firearm where it’s tucked safely, because surely such an intense aura is an enemy—

But no, it’s children. He’s so flabbergasted it takes the spokes girl, a little thing missing her two front teeth, two tries to get her spiel out enough for him to stop sputtering ‘haaah?’ at her, brim of his hat tilting up for the girls to discover he does indeed have a face under there.

“So? Daisies gotta sell liiiike….twelve boxes to get the next level!”

“Nooo, we’ve gotta sell twenty, dummy. The mint thins are the best, even if they look like little pancake turds.”

“You’re a pancake turd—the Samoas are the yummiest ones. They’re selling the best too. The pie charts said so.”

Three imploring gazes lock on to Jigen in a manner deadlier than any assassin ever has, even after chasing after Lupin the Third over the horizon. Sweat beads between the brim of his hat and his forehead. They even swiveled their gazes on him simultaneously, their big, big eyes far more dangerous to his health than lasers ready to cut him in half on a table.

[And just what the hell pie charts? Do these kids already know how to do pie charts? Did they teach them with pie? What the hell are these overbearing teachers doing--]

At the table behind them their mother? Troupe leader? Has since hopped off her seat and made her way over, one delicate hand [oh oh, oh, in the face of defending these little babies, precious to the future, that hand will turn into a claw and rip out the hearts of monsters] outstretched , fingertips brush a patch of green—

Her breath freezes in her throat, squeeze her windpipes to wheeze uselessly into humid air, when the man, the mafia man, stoops down to be at eye level with the girls.

A scream is half-loaded on her tongue when he plucks a nondescript leather wallet from his pocket and begins to paw through a few bills inside. Quite a few bills. She feels her own eyes sparkle to match the girls’ as they peer at him, doe eyed.

“How much will this buy? Count it up for me.” What he holds between two fingers is a fifty dollar bill. His lips curve up into a small smile, and she feels herself blush, just a little, before she comes to her senses.

“Thirty!”

“You can’t count that high…I can’t.” Snubbed and haughty all the same.

“Thirty five.” The final answer. This cues up two dangerously, treacherously wobbling bottom lips and shiny eyes.

A trickle of sweat slides down Jigen’s face. He sighs, but there’s hardly any heat loaded behind it. A gust of wind would have more power against this onslaught.  
Apparently not soon enough because Thing One has already dashed back to the table to make the first trip, boxes crushed between teeny arms, and Thing Three has already accepted the bill. He doesn’t seem too perturbed, though. Just chuffs out a chuckle, shakes his head, then adjusts his hat over the bridge of his nose with a tilt of his fingers.

“I’m sorry about them…the other troupe leader has them all fired up for the badge. They’re really good, though.” When he says nothing, her eyes narrow on him, one hand cocked on her hip as her charges dash to and fro.

“Gorging yourself on cookies isn’t going to help the alcohol problem, you know. Being hungover and sugar high just makes you even sicker…and shouldn’t you have a little more discipline when it comes to little girls?”

The noise he makes—she can’t be sure, but it sounds like a sputter through ragged lungs, there’s a hint of wide dark eyes flickering at her with disbelief in their depths.

“I don’t have— I can handle my booze better than some college frat kids, thanks.” His mouth is downturned again, and that wrinkle is on the run.

“Are you sure about that?” Chimes in a new voice from behind them, summoning the brat pack like a demon circle and an endless stream of latin.

If this man is in the mafia than the one before her decked out in blue is definitely the gopher. Or maybe…the boss, judging by the way the man beside her shifts, his shoulders visibly slump.

[Lupin to the rescue…he’s going to hear this for at least four days but it’s better than accidentally making someone cry or having to bat away acute questions with equally vague answers]

[women, even little ones, are dangerous]

“The last time I had to hold back your _beard_ for you. Might need some more training eh, Mister Soft Serve?” The man continues, spindly fingers poking through the tab of the first box, and pouting when all he gets is the stink eye from two girl tiny girls while the third fists her fingers in one blue sleeve.

_Oh, could her eyes get any bigger_.

Mister Jester, Mister Potential Boss, takes his eyes off the woman’s chest long enough to look down at the girl and become ensnared. The woman can see the hard line of his shoulders, rucked up and tense, soften. He’s not goo, not like the other one, but a slow grin scrawls across his mouth.

“How many did that mister buy? I’ll double it.”

Over the squealing of the girls and the thunder of her own heart [How is she going- WHAT is she going to tell Suzie? Just how will she rub this in Cassandra’s face? She should have made this a vine or something], she can hear the second man address his companion.

“I think I’m going to puke right now, from the sight of this.”

“Next time I have one of these sugar highs and a hangover, I’ll aim for your shoes.”

As troupe 66 squeal and squirm over their victory, cold hard cash crinkling in the little money box, the two strange men make a quick exit with a bag of groceries and too many boxes of Girl Scout cookies between them.

And their pride? Well. At least one of them can admit they’re both weak in the knees.


	2. On a cliff's edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get a bit of dog crap on their shoes and Fujiko comes to gloat. Or something like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real question is how many of these are going to involve someone hurt

She'd almost prefer if it were a dark and stormy night. At least then the atmosphere would be complete, and completely different than that breezy summer night, leftover rays from the sun still clinging to the earth and the tops of buildings. 

Naturally she'd seen it on television, and this isn't about returning the favor. 

[it was his job to come at her beck and call, now, all bright eyes and bushy tailed and _you'll be mine_ s over and over until it sinks into her skin]

It's more....Investigative. Gloating? Fujiko hasn't decided which. And she figures, by the gun cocked in the small of her back, she won't get much time to, either.

"What are you doing here, woman," comes the familiar growl. Actually, the gun felt pretty familiar, too, the weight of it settled against her, ready, as per usual. 

[her pulse quickens, as it always does, though whether or not its excitement or anticipation is one thing or another]

"Oh? A former conspirator can't come 'round to pay a visit? How cold of you. Doesn't suit you, either." 

The barrel doesn't waver so much as slide down, down, _down_ until it's at his side. She turns to peer into weary dark eyes, cocks a hand on one hip. 

"No one asked you to. Shouldn't you be gallivanting around with that samurai right about now? He must be worried," is the seethed retort through a tick in his jaw. Fujiko follows the tick with her fingertips because she knows she can.

[and there it is]

"The real question is, how long are you going to play this game? Didn't I say it doesn't suit you," her voice lowers a decibel, until he's reeled in, until the bushy beard springs against her cheek. 

It's obvious how torn he is. He leans into her touch, further than the leaning tower of Pisa, and, well, he can't say she never does anything for him. The scowl remains. Fingers grip the beard tight and _pull_ until elastic stretches and gives way to that familiar monkey face. 

" _Again_? I'm starting to think you could pick me out in another life, too," Lupin the Third snarks, mouth twisted in a hollow parody of the usual smirking mouth. "Though it'd be easy for the Queen to pick out her King from the throne beside him." 

Her mouth twitches up. Let him play, as always, with the cagey words and spooling till he finds the trail.

[there is none of that here; just an uneasy, sinking feeling in the pit of her gut, like serpents writhing]

"You're right--" When he perks up, it takes just a nudge to watch him fall like a domino. "A goddess easily sees the foolish King lay offerings at her alter and wonder what fools these mortals be. And besides-- you have your precious Walther." 

A fool or a monkey should be able to tell. If they'd slept in the past thirty hours, that is. 

Gun stowed in it's holster at his shoulder, Lupin tuts and turns his back on her. A worthy cause. Clearly he's been in the middle of a drink or two, and more studying, if the papers strewn across the couch, desk and floor are any indication.

[she lets her eye pass a few interesting looking words, but not for very long]

"If you've come to save the princess, he won't appreciate the disservice. He's still got his baby with him, by the way." 

Lupin doesn't have to tell her that. But she goes along with it anyway, bottom finding the edge of his desk, skirt riding up until he _has_ to look.

[and damn, that actually made her feel reassured....how stupid]

"As if I'd want to. I told him I'd never team up with him. Playing the hero doesn't suit me-- it's too much work and tears. Little boys have more fun playing pretend, right?" Her fingers taptaptap at the wood of the desk as if taptaptaping at the curve of his spine.

[she knows he imagines it, sees the shudder down his arms that strengthens to the steel of gray eyes]

"If that's all you wanted, you know where the door is. I've got a patient that needs quiet and I've got a headache," the thief spits through clenched teeth he bares at her. 

Part of her wants to laugh, wants to say 'you know what its like to be the wife for but a second, don't you?' but the rest of her wants to [choke] dig a nail in until she sees if he bleeds blue. But Fujiko manages a laugh, just for him, and demands to see the patient. 

As simple as that, just because he's a sleep, just because the fit of his jacket slops off his shoulders even though 'Lupin' only fell from the tower thirty hours ago, just because she aimed an [unloaded] gun at his crotch, she's taken to see the patient.

Pale as eggshell white paint patches, breathing as heavy as the chains that once bound her, filling up the room like nothing else, that funny feeling returns to the pit of Fujiko's stomach. She doesn't touch him, just leans over the edge of his bed with those gray eyes watching her like a hawk.

He doesn't bolt up in bed with accusations spit from his tongue like mercury and she's never one to get used to disappointment. A good five minutes goes by before petal pink lips part.

"Want to greet him together in the morning?" 

And because she'd never ask anyone else, because it's _them_ [her boys, though she won't admit it], Lupin tilts his head to one side, a bushy brow follows. "You _do_ know a hitman doesn't have a will, right?" 

He will definitely have a heart attack and kill them. Concurrently. 

Fujiko's already stripped down, long legs slide beneath silk sheets and Jigen doesn't stir when she rests her chin on his shoulder. 

Her eyes only slip closed when Lupin's warm hand curls over hers, revels in the beat of Jigen's heart beneath. 

[he's going to shit in the morning and the thought couldn't make her any happier]


	3. Darling, am I a chore?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of consideration with Goemon and Fujiko.

The most effective method when you're in (fr)enemy territory for the first time is first, snoop. Second, make yourself at home. Fujiko is devastatingly sure who owns the makeup currently scattered across a coffee table covered in newspapers and wires; its because of this she's acquainting herself with it.

Firstly, the foundation is pretty damn good. Lupin's got good taste. In makeup, at least. She had her doubts after watching some of his exploits with painted up beauties and the like [is the painting only as good as the canvas? she tries not to think of that, even now, now that her breathing is her own again], wondered if his acting is as bad as theirs, all sighs and fluttering eyelashes and no real _upturn of the chin_ , but then again...Fujiko hasn't seen him in action nearly enough.

[don't tell him that, though] 

Unearthed and cackled at and enraptured are his little bachelor treasures and delights, yet still he doesn't come. While the lady looter is content with skulking around her samurai friend doesn't find the same delight within these walls or junk. 

Goemon continues to pace, doesn't even bother polishing his sword, proverbially or literally. She feels his gaze every time those too-long lashes part over those stony orbs. It's a neat tell, those looks.

[the hairs on the back of her neck, on her arms, stand at attention. and though she doesn't want to scare him-- too much--] 

Fujiko sighs. The slap of Goemon's sandals halt the moment the sound leaves her lips. 

"Is something wr--"

"Brush my hair for me, will you? It's gotten so long just one hundred strokes won't do anymore," she says, all doe eyes and chin tipped over her shoulder, enough so the delicate little strap slips down, down. 

Not tickle-me-pink just yet, the samurai appears to be confounded. Befuddled. For a samurai who prides himself on training and discipline, Goemon's easy to read. Because he's a man. Because he searched for the truth of her. Because he's her boyfriend. 

"You appear to have that job taken care of. You always look fetch-- your appearance is always neat. Nothing that I need to--" 

"Is _that_ your new form of flattery? You're getting a little better." Cue the pink, starting from the cheekbones and spreading right to the cute little ears. She wants nothing more than to tuck that hair behind his ear with a finger and _then_. "Primping is as primping does, but sometimes wigs aren't enough. So brush my hair or else I might get a little tender headed...as far as I can tell, _I_ can't grow hair by meditating."

[though long fingers tugging at longer locks until her scalp stings wouldn't be so bad]

Goemon clears his throat, snatches the brush from her all in one motion [fingers hot against hers], and, with hands steadier than his pulse in his stomach, pulls bristles through chestnut locks. He's quiet, which isn't new. However, this isn't that same sort of peace. It's neither the kind from meditating, or triumph and pride he eludes from his very pores. 

[he's just a boy, you know

all too-warm hands cradled at the back of her head and breath-held] 

He's thinking. "Penny for your thoughts? The pouting might stick...I'll have to shoo the other girls off with _sticks_ at this rate." Laughter in her voice, like chiming birds in cages of ribs. 

[Adam's, which he gave willingly. The fool.] 

Goemon hesitates-- no, he _thinks_. What you call hesitating in any other human being is that little pucker between his brows. Goemon measures his words as though his tongue is the scale and each sentence is the weight of the world.

"Thieves can't be trusted. How do you know this man will be? If he should savor something other than this diamond..." Brush strokes never cease, they're as steady as the samurai's conviction, as the bandages around his torso. Fujiko hums to herself, then chuckles.

[peals of bells turn into a cackle]

"Don't tell me you're jealous. If you can't handle it, boyfriend, then you might want to get out of the kitchen." Honey eyes regard his in the mirror, that frown and turn of his lip, and something fond and dangerous gathers in her belly. 

"If you don't want to play at this game, suit yourself. I thought you wanted some _fresh_ training," her tone dips low, conspiring. "Teamwork and then breaking the code of sharing is caring _is_ the freshest training you can get." 

When this explanation, as shoddy as it is, as confident as it is, gains no response, Fujiko sighs. It's gentler. 

"You'll be alright, Goemon. _I'll be with you_ \-- ah-ah-ah, I know, you won't let their gentlemanly wiles distract you. Neither will I." Sharpness returns to her gaze, enough to halt the brush. 

Calloused fingers twine in the ends of her hair and just for a second she wants to kiss the stubborn line of his mouth. One second of lack of control.

But the moment passes when he grumbles something about "troublesome thieves" just as the guests of honor arrive. The hosts of honor. Laughing and stumbling over themselves, Lupin and Jigen are red faced and dripping from head to toe, all the more glad for it. 

At Goemon's combined look of disgust and the begrudging of someone's grandmother in law, Fujiko mouths, 

"It'll only be temporary." 

[that's the thing about things you can't quite see unless you squint or you're 30 hours with no sleep and blood loss....

Family is a little like that. The future Lupin Gang is exactly like that]


	4. the shade of sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goemon's got a lot to prove on his first job with what will soon known as 'the Lupin gang', and bites off a bit more than he can chew. 
> 
> Also why is no one paying attention to his heart monitor he could have the big one at any moment.

Lavender. It assaults his nose, boots up his brain, and the sparks begin a trial run along the wrinkles of his hazy mind. Lavender and soft lines and poison laced tongue. Soft lines and lavender and a perfume as sweet as honey eyes.   
Soft lines. His eyes flutter open and the first thing he’s witness to is a face full of wonderful, vaguely familiar [if you can call him the expert of distinguishing pairs; you can’t] breasts. The sound of his sputter drowns out the sweet melody on her lips, the fingers he just noticed [shameful, shameful reflexes] pause mid-stroke of his hair over his [automatically frowning] forehead.

“Ah, look who decided to join us,” comes the melodious sound of an angel’s observation. It takes three series of blinks for the fog to clear his vision and notice that he’s surrounded by white. He’s never been one for angels, and he doesn’t expect virgins in his haven, that, too, would be shameful to his disciplined soul—But this, oh, this. 

“Well?  
A waterfall of brown hair tumbles into his eyes as she peers at him, Maria—no, Fujiko Mine. 

“I know it isn’t cat that’s got your tongue. Perhaps you could use a little more resuscitation?” She leans down, lavender cloys in his nostrils once more, and he can practically feel all the hairs on his body stand on end as plush lips brush against his own.

Thanks to the shock and nothing else, Goemon recovers when a perfectly manicured hand trails down to his waist. His synapsis lights up with pleasure he knows he’ll only dream of when the drugs wear off, but for now he’s content. Red to the tips of his ears, but content. Licking his lips, he manages,

“How long?” Ah, his throat feels as though fire has coursed through it. Fujiko kindly remedies that with a gentle hand supporting his neck and a cold glass of water.

“About a day and a half. Jigen was beginning to worry, though we both know he won’t admit it.”   
Always calm, his girlfriend. His arm hardly feels like his own when he lifts it to trace the worrylines around her mouth, his gaze simultaneously tracing the new bags under her eyes the makeup can’t cover. 

His heart stutters on the monitor the moment her hand catches his. She presses kisses to his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, and Gods he wishes he wasn’t so sluggish, that his body could catch up because—

Jigen Daisuke chooses that moment to walk through the door. Immediately he looks as though he wants nothing more than to walk right back out again, and also, to throw Goemon out the window. 

“Really,” is all he says, disgust palpable under that hat. Goemon flushes in shame but refuses to say more, not even when Fujiko very much doesn’t drop his hand. 

Lupin the Third sweeps into the room like the whirlwind that he is, wild eyes flickering about the room, taking everything in within seconds.   
“  
So did you get it?” 

Funny how it takes but five words for the entire moment to shatter like a windowpane. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? He nearly died and all you and your stupid pride care about is the loot?” Jigen’s rage quivers in his limbs, burns him to ash the second those words fall from his mouth. 

“He isn’t a child. He was paid to do a job, like a professional, or have you forgotten what that’s like for all the days I’ve let you ride my coattails?” Lupin’s a hard case, a body and heart of stone with the facts, always those facts. And it pisses Jigen the fuck off, and he knows it and revels in it. Revels in reminding him just how high the barnyard dog’ll jump these days. 

Fists are thrown, knuckles bloodied and mouths cut up with words more than deeds, and the only reason the nurses aren’t called is because Goemon opens his mouth.

“Mother and Father are fighting again.”

As if cold water was poured over them, Jigen and Lupin pull themselves apart. The gunman shuffles a cigarette into his mouth. 

“He’s more fucked than we thought.” 

Goemon can’t even be embarrassed about it, because what results a moment later is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. Fujiko giggles, brown eyes twinkling. His heart monitor skips a beat again. 

For a moment everything is blessedly sane, even for them. The second best moment is when Lupin and Jigen depart again—still refusing to look at one another – but they’re gone nonetheless. Which leaves the weary warrior to discover just how worried the woman spy-thief-journalist-whoever-this-week was about him. 

He must have fallen asleep at some point, doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but does recall her sweet voice in his ear, fingers carding through his hair. Goemon would like to have less of an audience in the future, all this socializing while he’s half unconscious doing wonders for his pride. He’s going to have to train by defeating a shark at this point to get back in shape.

If they had the same idea of going back to the scene of the incident, Lupin and Jigen don’t show it. Only the bullet holes in their clothes and the singed threads of time speak volumes. That and the cat-that-got-the-canary grin that worms its way across Lupin’s mouth.

“You had it all the time,” he decides. Goemon’s pleasantly surprised to find pride directed towards him, not anger, nothing sullen. 

“I had it all the time,” The samurai confirms, pawing at the mattress for their prize, only to fall short. 

“Oh.” 

Jigen and Lupin hang on his every word.

“Oh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Goemon turns bright red and in that moment all is clear.

Jigen throws his hands up in the air, looks fit to eat his own hat.

“That goddamn woman--! _Who even let her in here_? I bet it was you, master thief!” 

Mouth downturned in a pout, all Lupin has to say is: “She didn’t even give me a kiss goodbye.” 

Goemon turns redder still, and a sigh escapes the thief’s mouth. “So much for avenging you.” 

The samurai sits up, wincing as he does so, but the surprise he feels blossom (along with the embarrassment he tries to squash) does wonders. “Avenge…? Did you two return there just for—“ 

“No one ever said that—aside from this moron! We don’t have to explain ourselves, the job’s done, you just—keep your ass in that bed. Whatever.”  
Jigen’s all but thrown himself out of the room, with a chuckling master thief not too far behind. 

“You did good. Maybe next time we can work on your disguises, though.” 

Goemon isn’t a kid, but that….is good to hear. Of course, when he happens to take a glance out into the hall, he feels a lot more like a kid who’s watching their parents be mushy.   
Master thief and master gunman lean into one another, the brim of Jigen’s hat nearly touching Lupin’s forehead. Shoulders slanted toward eachother, like completing the edges of a puzzle first. Jigen, finally fed up with whatever bullshit Lupin’s spouting, grasps the thief by his ears to pull him down for a dizzying kiss.

The samurai, satisfied in a job well done, settles down for a well earned nap.

“Honestly, it’s enough to make a child worry, all this arguing.”

Ah, he’d just referred to himself as a child again. Dammit.


End file.
